


The Whole World

by themarchgirl



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Unrequited Love, lavellan/blackwall is mostly bg but obvs is there....., love triangle kinda, quietly pining solas, solas is pining VERY quietly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4385255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themarchgirl/pseuds/themarchgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas POV re-telling of Dragon Age: Inquisition featuring my inquisitor, Ellana Lavellan.</p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>When he joins the Inquisition to remedy the consequences of his actions, Solas falls in love with Ellana Lavellan. Ellana Lavellan does not fall in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Whole World

**Author's Note:**

> HO BOY another multichap for me to throw myself into. This idea has been attacking me for about three weeks now and it's so painful I HAVE TO WRITE IT. I really want to do this well. I'm aiming to avoid very gross fandom tropes of possessive Solas and going for something that I believe is a lot closer to canon. 
> 
> So. PINING. My absolute favourite. It hurts so good. 
> 
> Please let me know if you enjoy!! This is going to be long. I didn't mean to write 5000 words about Solas Vs. Anchor but there we go.

The sky is falling.

Solas ducks reflexively as great balls of mass from the gaping green hole in the swirling clouds thunder to the snowy ground. He can hear the Seeker shouting for him to keep moving over the screams, the rumbling, but the panic that climbs up his throat at the sight of the catastrophic result of his mistake fixes his feet firmly to the ground.

The Seeker grasps his arm roughly and pulls him along, in the direction of another section of the crumbling Temple of Sacred Ashes. Soldiers are gaping at the Breach, weapons useless in their hands. A few archers are attempting to fell a rage demon that is lumbering up the path ahead. It roars suddenly and sends flames towards its attackers, luckily only melting a helm and scorching a pair of eyebrows. The soldiers see the Seeker and Solas approaching and the relief is palpable in their expressions, although it is mostly at the sight of the Seeker. They regard Solas with far more suspicion.

She barks for them to be let through the gate and two men hurry to wrench the doors open for her. Once inside the building, she takes a torch and leads him down a pitch black set of steps and into a sort of dungeon. Another soldier hands her a pair of keys.

The infamous prisoner, who she and Sister Nightingale have been hissing at each other about for the last day or two, lies prone on the cold floor of the last cell. Solas notes with some surprise that they are an elf. The Seeker prods her with her foot, presumably to see if she will awaken, causing their head to loll towards the entrance of the cell. Solas’ lip curls when he notices the _vallaslin_ of Sylaise entwining around the prisoners right eye and down their cheek.

‘Yes, we were surprised to see she is Dalish, too,’ Seeker Pentaghast says, looking closely at his expression. Solas rearranges his expression into something far more neutral. ‘As you know, she…fell out of a rift. And there is something on her hand. It seems to activate as the Breach expands.’

Solas kneels next to the elf on the ground and brings her arm into his lap. Sure enough, a laceration has formed across the palm of her left hand. It is glowing, crackling faintly, and it seems to hum with familiarity as his fingertips touch it.

She crouches down abruptly. ‘It didn’t do that before.’

‘It has not been examined by a mage before, I presume,’ Solas lies swiftly, turning her hand over in his grasp. The mark does not penetrate her flesh fully. 

‘Hmm.’ The Seeker returns her suspicious gaze to him. ‘Any ideas, apostate?’

‘If it the mark was formed in the blast, it likely houses the same magic that caused it,’ Solas says slowly. Suddenly there is a great rumble above them and the green mark flashes, crackling loudly. Solas drops her hand momentarily. When he picks it up again, he sees that its edges have spread towards the bottom of the elf’s palm. 

He grimaces. ‘It is certainly linked. And certainly spreading.’

‘What can you do?’ Seeker Pentaghast asks expectantly. He looks up and sees what may be hope in her dark eyes. He sighs and looks at the prisoner’s face for only the second time. She does not seem to be aware of any pain or discomfort for the moment.

‘It is spreading slowly, which gives me more time to work with it,’ he begins to say. 

‘You do not have time!’ the Seeker snaps. ‘Have you forgotten what we are battling outside this room? There are demons everywhere!’

She leans over the prisoner and wrenches him forward by the collar. ‘I need the Breach closed. Do you understand that, apostate?’

Solas grits his teeth. ‘How much time do I have, Seeker?’

She regards him coldly. ‘A day. And then I turn you over to the templars.’

She stands up and strides out of the room, commanding the guard to keep watch and summoning a templar over to accompany him. Solas swears under his breath; he has successfully avoided the clutches of the Chantry up until this point but if he cannot heal this elf and somehow undo his mistake that stealth will mean nothing.

He begins by resting his palm gently over the prisoner’s chest. Her heart is beating a little faster than it should be. He checks her forehead next, inadvertently brushing back the locks of red wavy hair that fall in front of her large ears. She is running a slight fever. She does not appear to have any other injuries. A good sign. If she has truly fallen out of a rift, been physically in the Fade, her body will need to recover. She is unconscious for good reason.

He turns back to the mark on her hand. Its fidgeting, wrestling energy calms under his touch. But despite the bond of he and his magic, something is wrong, corrupted. He has no idea how his magic ended up on this elf’s palm; how could she have come into direct contact with it? He is reluctant to simply heal the wound, take his magic out – the connection between this mark and the huge rift in the sky is notable. It would be foolish to simply remove it. He can feel the gaze of the templar and soldier on his back. He wishes to fully test his theory, but he imagines that anything he conjures other than a healing spell will grant him a sickening smite. 

So, he focuses upon the biggest threat to the elf he is kneeling next to. The spread of the mark is slow, but it is still happening. He wonders what the mark looked like when she initially fell out of the rift – it has been over a day and the mark almost encompasses her hand. He takes her hand again and pulls her fingers back gently, considering the spread of skin. There is no blood, only the hazy and too-bright light of the magic she now holds. A groan up ahead – the mark is spreading again. It flashes, blinding him momentarily. As his eyes adjust and the image burned into his irises begins to fade, he watches the way the magic stretches the skin, physically tearing through it.

He has less time than he had thought. At once, he realises that as soon as the magic reaches the veins in her wrist the magic will flow quickly to her heart. 

As if she realises this too, the elf begins to writhe below him, whimpering and muttering unintelligible words. His guards rush into the cell, shouting questions. He holds up a hand and cups her cheek, murmuring a soothing spell and letting a small part of his healing magic seep into her brain. 

‘Speak, mage!’ The templar bellows, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. 

‘Should I find Seeker Pentaghast?’ The soldier says, too, his expression more concerned than that of his partner. The three of them watch as the prisoner’s cries quiet and she falls once again into peaceful unconsciousness.

Solas rolls his eyes. ‘The magic is spreading faster than anticipated. Although she is not awake, her body recognises this and is encouraging her to wake. But it is better that she sleeps.’

‘Mage! Should we bring the Seeker?’

Solas turns fully to the guards. ‘Not at the moment. If you don’t mind, the last thing this prisoner needs is for me to be distracted with your…questions,’ he says tartly. 

‘Careful how you speak, apostate,’ the templar warns, pulling his sword slightly out of his sheath.

Solas exhales shortly. ‘I have been given a task by the Seeker. I wish to complete it. Kindly let me finish my work.’

The soldier steps back, tugging on the templar’s shoulder when his stance doesn’t change. ‘Come on, Davids. He’s not stupid enough to try and escape now.’

Indeed, Solas isn’t. A stronger, younger Solas – he would have sent them flying with a wave of his hand. But now, only a few decades out of uthenera and without his power; indeed, it would be terribly foolish. Particularly, the power of templars to remove his magic and render him nauseous and shaking – he would like to avoid it wherever possible.

The guards step back out into the hallway and Solas returns to his charge. The elf is breathing more audibly now, and the palm he cradles in his lap is clammy. She seems to anticipate another pulse in the Breach; it comes like thunder, rolling over the Temple’s shaky ceilings and charging the mark on the prisoner’s hand with unruly energy. As the mark bristles in his clutch, the elf begins to murmur desperately again. 

Once again, he settles her with a touch to her temples and the cool press of his healing magic. She slumps back to the ground, quiet.

‘It’s all right,’ he mutters. ‘Sleep.’

He needs to stop the mark spreading. The bottom of the crooked triangle of the mark is advancing quickly on her wrist, following the slopes of her palm. He interlocks his fingers with hers from behind her hand, keeping her palm facing up towards him. The mark bristles again, green flames of magic flickering angrily. Finding the very last fumes of his own, ancient magic, he meets her left palm with his right.

The impact is a thunderclap, a shock that shoots through his arm and leaves his chest aching. He falls backwards, his back hitting the stone floor hard.

A sword is at his neck before he can sit up. The Seeker is back and glaring at him.

‘What, exactly, are you doing?’ she inquires. ‘I asked you to study this mark and see if we can use it. I did not ask you to replicate the blast inside this cell!’

‘The mark – it’s spreading too quickly.’ Solas’ is rasping, the shock making his chest too tight. He can feel the blow his magic has taken, too. ‘The mark may work on the rifts, Seeker, but she may die before I can test it.’

Her eyes narrow, but she removes her sword and helps him to his feet. ‘What happened just now?’

‘I attempted to touch the mark using a purer form of magic,’ Solas explains. ‘It reacted badly. Seeker, may I trouble you for a lyrium potion?’

She turns to the guards on the door. ‘Davids?’

The templar begrudgingly finds one in his pack and hands it over. Solas downs it, grimacing at the chemical sweetness but feeling the thirst of his mana stores quenched. 

The now-familiar rumble of the Breach matches the sparking noise of the mark on the prisoner’s hand. This time, she wails loudly. Solas kneels down hurriedly and attempts to soothe her, but she is clearly in pain and delirious. 

‘Apostate, she is dying,’ the Seeker says. She crouches on the other side of the prisoner, holding her shoulder down to the ground. ‘What do you need?’

‘I believe if I counter the magic in the mark I may be able to neutralise it,’ Solas explains, concentrating on spreading cool healing magic over the now feverish forehead of the elf between them. ‘This will only be temporary – a few seconds, depending on how quickly the Breach is expanding – but I will then attempt to heal the flesh in her hand.’

‘Will this work?’ the Seeker asks, ripping a bandage from her pack and using it to mop the prisoner’s brow. 

Solas shakes his head. ‘I have no idea, but it is the only solution I can think of. I have healed many people over the years, Seeker, but nothing like this.’

She appears to be chewing on her lip. ‘All right. Morris, assist him by holding her down.’ 

The soldier, who is younger than the templar and of a far more pleasant countenance, joins them on the floor. His hands replace the Seeker’s on the prisoners shoulders. She stands, brushing off her armour.

‘My terms still stand, apostate,’ she murmurs. ‘I am afraid that there are now very few people, let alone mages, who I trust.’

Solas nods, though he wishes to laugh incredulously. Waking up in this world of Andrastianism and the Chantry had been one of the most difficult things to process. He fell asleep knowing only magic, and awakened in air that felt dry, clogging without it. Apparently his offer of help and willingness to give up his staff means nothing. 

The Seeker marches away, her boots knocking loudly on the stone floor of the Temple dungeon. Solas turns back to his charge and his reluctant assistant. The prisoner is still whimpering and moving. 

‘I may need to repeat this process over the next few hours,’ he explains. The soldier nods.

‘Will you be needing lyrium?’

‘Potentially, although I will approach the mark more carefully this time. The… reaction of the mark depleted my mana. I should be able to avoid it.’

The soldier – Morris – looks down at the elf. ‘Do you think she did it?’

Solas sighs. ‘I very much doubt it. I would certainly like to know how she managed to acquire this mark, though.’

‘But she was the only survivor!’ The soldier watches Solas cast his healing magic on her again. ‘Surely that means -‘

‘You would need a great deal of magic to cause a blast that large,’ Solas interupts, patient but firm. ‘We do not know for certain whether she can wield magic at all.’

The soldier shakes his head, whistling. ‘How did a little knife-ear like this get into such a mess?’ Solas looks up at him sharply. ‘Oh, sorry.’

Solas ignores his apology and gets back to his theory of how to save the elf. If he can channel enough of his magic, and slowly approach the mark – the neutralisation will allow him a minute, maybe two, to heal her hand and strengthen her flesh. It may be enough to keep her alive until the Breach is sealed. And if the Breach no longer expands…

Yes. It should work.

‘We will need to wait until the Breach expands again,’ he explains. ‘Then I can ensure I have as much time as possible to heal her hand.’

The soldier nods. ‘What should I do?’ 

‘Hold her down, check her pulse,’ Solas says, his ears pricked and his eyes fixed on the mark. ‘I do not know how much of her life force is tied to this mark. There is a small chance that when I neutralise the mark – it may be fatal.’

The soldier gulps. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, apostate.’

‘Oh, I don’t,’ Solas replies quietly. ‘But I doubt any of us do.’

The soldier goes quiet but watches him warily. They wait together for another two minutes in silence before the Breach awakens again.

The rumbling begins and it is very loud this time. Solas takes hold of her hand like he had before and allows his purest, most primal magic to build up in his palm. He has so little left. But this is the only chance he has to save this prisoner, and maybe the rest of the world.

‘Keep her down,’ he says loudly over the thundering of the Breach and the crackling of the mark. And he pushes.

It is distinctly uncomfortable, like the mark is pushing his hand in the opposite direction as he presses further. The prisoner is wailing again, writhing on the floor. The soldier, to his credit, has his hands steadfast on her shoulders. 

He keeps pushing, maintains a distance of half a foot between her palm and is. The dark green of the magic of her mark begins to pale, and the resistance fades. Solas allows himself to lessen his force slightly, and, ever so slowly, he brings his palm forward to meet hers. There is a hollow snapping sound. He gingerly lifts his palm away.

The mark has certainly been calmed. Where before the magic struggled against the flesh to escape, her palm now bears a clear jagged triangle filled with what looks like dark green liquid. Solas exhales in relief. He notes that the prisoner no longer struggles; she is peaceful once more, although now her brow is furrowed.

The soldier presses the back of his hand to her forehead. ‘Fever’s going down.’

‘Excellent,’ Solas breathes. ‘Ser Davids, may I have another lyrium potion?’

The templar, who has been watching with great suspicion, huffs loudly but hands one over. He hs them ready; evidently Cassandra had had a word before she went back to the surface. Solas pours it down his throat again, wincing at the taste. They only have a few minutes before the mark inevitably erupts again. He gathers together what he can of his healing magic and holds his hand above her palm once again. Thankfully, her flesh begins to tie itself together again, millimetre by millimetre, cell by cell. The green inside her palm awakens a little at the touch of magic and fights back, but it has been neutralised so that only a pulsing of the Breach would give it any power. 

What was a triangle now becomes a thin scar across her palm. Solas strongly suspects that the next expansion of the Breach will tear her flesh once more, but for now he has extended the life of the elf. If he can sustain her until she wakes, there may be hope yet.

The soldier lets go of her shoulders and leans over to inspect his work. Seemingly satisfied, he stands. 

‘Wait!’ Solas struggles to his feet too. ‘We will not know if I am successful until the Breach expands again.’

The soldier sighs and turns to the templar. ‘Fetch Seeker Pentaghast.’

‘I can’t leave you alone with an apostate,’ the templar argues. 

‘Davids,’ Morris warns. ‘You saw what he did. She’ll want to know’

Solas has already returned to the prisoner and is checking her heartbeat, but he smirks at the sound of the templar grumbling under his breath as he leaves. Morris kneels back down and watches him work. 

The elf is breathing deeply, her expression now neutral. Her hairline is still damp with cooling sweat, her hands still clammy, but she is stable. For now.

Rapid footsteps come suddenly down the corridor – three pairs. Solas recognises the lilting Orlesian accent of Sister Nightingale as well as Seeker Pentaghast’s and Ser Davids’. They burst into the cell.

‘You have closed the mark?’ the Seeker asks, kneeling next to Solas and taking the prisoner’s hand from him. ‘But –‘

‘I believe I have closed it temporarily,’ Solas says evenly. ‘I do not doubt that another expansion of the Breach will open it once more. But if I keep treating it in this manner she may awaken. And then she may be able to use this mark on the Breach.’

‘The expansions are slowing down,’ Sister Nightingale says from the corner. ‘How did you manage this?’

‘I neutralised the mark with a purer form of my magic as the Breach expanded,’ he says. His ears prick; another pulse is coming soon. ‘This calmed the mark so that I could clearly see the wound and heal her flesh. The magic is still in her hand. I do not know if it will ever come out.’

The two women glance at each other warily but seem to believe him. Solas checks the prisoner’s pulse again; it is speeding up.

‘The Breach is about to expand,’ he states, the volume of his voice startling the other occupants of the cell. The Seeker and Morris hold down the shoulders and hips of the prisoner. Sister Nightingale extends a hand to hold onto the wall and stares, hard, at the group of people gathered on the floor.

It is a big one. This pulse rumbles, thunders, rolling above them like great wild waves on the sea. The mark immediately sparks to life, its current host screaming in pain. 

‘ _Fenhedis_.’ Solas scrambles for his magic again as the scar gapes wide again, green light shooting angrily out of it. He begins to perform the same treatment as previously, before the rumbling stops and the prisoner slumps to the ground again, whimpering. The mark calms slightly, showing him the damage it has done to his work.

It is not as much as he had expected, but more than he had hoped. The wound has opened by about three millimetres, the triangle shape already beginning to form on her palm. He exhales slowly and leans over to soothe the prisoner’s mind with his healing magic again. Soon she quiets, Morris mopping her brow again. 

Sister Nightingale moves closer and crouches down next to the Seeker. ‘That is less than it had been expanding. Well done, Solas.’

Her use of his name startles him, and he regards her coolly for a moment before nodding. She returns to her corner and folds her arms.

‘She is of Clan Lavellan,’ she says after a few long seconds of silence. ‘From the Free Marches. Undoubtedly a spy attending the Conclave.’

Solas attends to his patient, but listens carefully. He wonders how Sister Nightingale was able to find this out about the elf.

The Seeker asks for him. ‘How did you find her clan name, Leliana? Is that what you’ve been doing?’

‘She is our prime suspect, is she not?’ Sister Nightingale adjusts her stance against the wall. ‘Clan Lavellan is one of the most influential in the Free Marches. They were close to Ostwick when Kirkwall…happened. I imagine they’d like to keep an eye on templar-mage negotiations.’

The Seeker does not seem fully satisfied by this justification. Sister Nightingale smirks.

‘All right, Cassandra. I also found plenty of spindleweed on her person. My sources tell me that Keeper Istamaethoriel Lavellan is famous for her spindleweed remedies among the Dalish.’

Solas snorts quietly. The women turn to look at him. 

‘Is there something funny, apostate?’ Seeker Pentaghast snaps.

‘Forgive me,’ he replies, checking the prisoner again for a fever. Her temperature is staying down. ‘I was not aware of the many uses of spindleweed.’

‘Neither was I,’ Sister Nightingale says dryly. ‘We can question her about her name when she awakens, Cassandra.’

The Seeker makes an unhappy noise of affirmation. They descend into silence again. Morris and Ser Davids begin to grow restless, until she sends them back out to guard the cell. 

Sister Nightingale and Seeker Pentaghast command Solas to stay with the prisoner for the remainder of the day and Ser Davids to keep giving him lyrium potions. They leave after about an hour and three more expansions of the Breach, which are indeed slowing.

And so Solas stays. 

As he keeps watch over the prisoner he finds himself wondering about this elf, who travelled from the northern parts of the Free Marches alone to attend this human indulgence in pretended diplomacy. She wears a simple traveller’s uniform; tunic and leggings, with an overcoat and scarf to protect her face against the wind. He imagines her bracing herself against the cold, unused to the temperature. He inspects her hands curiously – calloused, used to grasping something. He strongly suspects that she is a mage; he can sense the magic thrumming in her fingertips. At one particular pulse of the Breach she confirms his suspicion by sending ice shooting over his hand; he quickly sends warmth through his hand to conceal the accident.

Her status as an apostate will do her no favours if she is unable to close the Breach. Even if she manages to assist the humans here he cannot guarantee her safety from the templars. The Andrastians’ insistence on labelling lone mages as apostates even now stuns him; there are no Circles to house mages. All mages are apostates. And yet he is threatened with imprisonment.

This elf – potentially a First, although maybe a mage considered one too many – sleeps for many hours. She occasionally murmurs, whines, snores. Her hair, which she had clearly tied up so carefully in a bun at the back of her head, is knotted around her on the stone floor. Solas finds himself wishing for a comb so that he could brush it for her. His initial distaste for her clearly Dalish heritage remains. She may be as arrogant and unforgiving as he anticipates when she wakes. But this woman is still his kin, in a manner of speaking. And surrounded by shemlen, they are very much alone. He spends some minutes each hour regarding her ears, which are far too big for her slender fingers and neck, but still impress him. They are sort of endearing. Solas shakes his head at that conclusion and goes back to testing her limbs for any breakages he missed.

Ten hours pass before Solas must, once again, neutralise the mark. It has spread to about half the size it was when it was neutralised for the first time and, as Solas tells Morris, it may weaken the mark considerably so that the elf’s tissue can heal more effectively. 

They wait for another expansion. The pulses are about fifty minutes apart now, and they are louder and louder each time. At one point a mass of green fell right on top of them and Solas had to freeze a rage demon that came down from the ceiling. It has been forty-nine minutes, according to Morris’ counting. Solas allows his sense of touch and smell to fade in order to focus his hearing and vision. In this way he can build up the power he needs before the moment the Breach expands. 

This time he hears it before the green light illuminates their faces. Delving into his very self for what he hopes is the last time, he feels his magic build in his palms. He pulls the prisoner’s fingers back, as before, and places his palm half a foot above hers. 

The mark crackles and he pushes. 

The resistance is the same, but gives under the pressure of his magic far quicker. Maintaining the slow movement towards her palm, Solas lessens the force as their hands become closer together. And there is the same hollow snap.

‘Did it work?’ Morris asks.

Solas nods and reaches for the lyrium potion Ser Davids had given him ten minutes ago. He drains the flask and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Once again, he opens their hands and finds the clear crooked triangle that the mark resides in. Healing the tissue is successful this time, too. The scar is in the same shape as before but the colouring is fainter. He has managed to heal her tissue better this time. An involuntary smile creeps over his lips.

Seeker Pentaghast returns about an hour later. By this point there has only been one expansion of the Breach since the second neutralisation of the mark, although the power of the pulses is tending to increase. She silently arrives and stands over the prisoner, who finally seems to be simply sleeping. 

‘She has colour in her cheeks,’ Morris says. ‘She will awaken soon.’

‘Apostate, is this true?’ The Seeker is frowning, now.

Solas clears his throat. ‘I believe she was unconscious for so long due to the trauma of the explosion and her journey out of the rift just before you found her. Indeed, her colour is returning. I am not sure how lucid she will be when she wakes, Seeker. You may need to give her some time before you begin your questioning.’

She nods. ‘Of course. But she will be questioned. She is the only survivor, and currently still our only suspect.’

Solas does not voice his displeasure, but he feels a tug of protectiveness over the elf that could be carted off to Val Royeaux at any moment. To have healed her, to theorise her possible abilities – he was curious. 

‘You believe this mark may be used on the rifts?’ The Seeker continues.

‘Yes.’ Solas takes the elf’s left hand for what must be the fiftieth time. ‘It was borne of the same magic as these rifts. I do not know for certain but I believe it should be tested upon them. It is the only thing that I can imagine closing them.’

The Seeker seems to consider this for a moment before sighing and burying her face in her hands. ‘If this does not work, I don’t know what we will do.’

Solas bows his head. ‘For that reason I beg that you keep the prisoner alive. She truly may be the only way of sealing the Breach and the thousands of other rifts that have formed.’

‘Yes, I see,’ the Seeker replies. She looks away to far down the corridor but seems to see nothing. Then she turns back to him. ‘You have fulfilled my terms, apostate. You are free to go.’

Solas looks up at her in surprise. He had expected her to imprison him anyway. Strange.

‘If it is amenable to you, Seeker, I would stay and help,’ he says slowly. ‘I may be able to assist the prisoner in tackling the rifts.’

She studies him for some long moments, considering this. Then – 

‘Certainly. You alone seem to show understanding of what exactly has happened here.’

He offers her a tentative smile. ‘For years I have studied the workings of the Fade and the Veil. It is good to put that knowledge to use. Thank you, Seeker.’

She nods and looks down at the prisoner. He follows her gaze, allowing his eyes to run over her pointed features, her ears. 

He hopes – oh, he hopes – that she will survive. She is the only victim of his colossal mistake that still breathes. He will not lose her too.

He has invested himself far too much in this stranger’s livelihood. He stands, brushing down his tunic and following Ser Davids, who is inevitably accompanying him out of the dungeon. He forces the sound of her screams and continues out into the chaos of Haven.


End file.
